


Joaniarty Prompts

by serenityxdragon



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fic, Smut, kidnapping/rescue, other characters not mentioned in tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-02 00:28:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14532726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityxdragon/pseuds/serenityxdragon
Summary: Joan and Moriarty maybe aren't what pops into mind when you think of a healthy, fulfilling relationship, but they make it work.(Content warnings before each chapter, and rating in chapter titles as the rating will change a lot. Starts with a nice safe G)





	1. Jamie that's not your house (G)

**Prompt: Joan walking into her bedroom and finds Jamie reading a book in the bed like she belongs there**

**Content: tired Joan, casual Jamie, cuddles, Sappho poetry**

 

Joan's hands are so shaky she has trouble fitting the key in the lock.

After being awake for 21 hours, with little sleep for the whole week, the case had finally been solved. A little girl was reunited with her parents. And finally, finally, Joan would be able to sleep.

She drags herself up the stairs, opens the door to her bedroom-

It's Jamie. Of course it's Jamie.

“J- Moriarty, what are you doing here?”

“I'm reading a book,” she says, holding the cover towards her in demonstration.

Joan rubs the bridge of her nose. On any other day, she would have been shaken- Moriarty is wearing sweatpants and a tank top, and her hair is down- but she's too tired to properly acknowledge it. “How did you get into the brownstone?”

“I used the key.”

“This is my- where did you-”

“You should pay more attention to your pockets,” Moriarty says, flipping the page of her book. A complete anthology of Sappho’s poems. Joan isn't even surprised.

“Scoot over,” Joan says. Moriarty looks up.

“Really?”

“Scoot.” Joan plops herself down on the bed, and Moriarty shifts to the side.

It's quiet again, except for the sound of pages turning. She's in this half-awake, half-asleep state for what seems like moments, or maybe hours, when she feels a hand brush her hair, and hears soft words. It is as if the words come from behind a wall, muffled and distant.

“Equal to a god, that person seems to me- that is, whoever sits across from you, so close, savouring your sweet voice, and your thrilling laugh that makes my heart reel inside my breast. For when I look at you, even for an instant, speech becomes impossible. Words desert me, my tongue broken, as a flame spreads throughout my skin. My eyes are blinded, roaring fills my ears, cold sweat cascades over me, and trembling assaults me.”

The hand on Joan's head stills, as Jamie continues, quieter this time.  
“In my desperation, I seem to have come to the very threshold of death, for I am dying of such love, or so it seems to me.”

 _She thinks I'm asleep,_ Joan thinks, thoughts barely cohesive. _I should be._

It only takes another moment.

In the morning, when she wakes, Jamie- _Moriarty_ is gone. She almost feels disappointed.

Then she sees the book, propped up against the pillows, and the tank top Moriarty was wearing next to it. Joan tries to fight back a blush before she recognizes the shirt. It's hers, although she hasn't worn it for a very long time

She picks it up and smells it, and it's comforting, even though she has never felt entirely safe around Moriarty. It smells like her.

She opens the front page of the book, and finds neat, loopy writing under the title.

_I hope you find this book as enjoyable as I did upon my initial reading. Page 89._

_-J_

There are phrases underlined throughout, but the entire poem on page 89 is underlined. Joan's fingers trace over the word, memories coming back to her from last night. _For when I look at you, even for an instant, speech becomes impossible._

If Sherlock notices anything off when she wears her old tank top that day, he doesn't mention it. The scent fades, and Joan finds herself hoping Moriarty comes back.


	2. Kidnapping/Rescue (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: someone tries to off Joan/kidnaps her... and Jamie makes a personal appearance to destroy and make an example out of said kidnappers/hitmen to show that Joan is under her PERSONAL protection and not to be touched (except by her)
> 
> Prompt: Joan gets too deep into a case and ends up getting abducted. Jamie is furious (and plenty worried)

Logically, Joan should have figured out it wasn’t an ordinary murder. When it’s that hard to get witnesses to talk, there’s something going on.

It shouldn’t have taken her until she was assaulted and thrown into the trunk of a car.

Her hands are thoroughly taped, fingers and all, behind her back. There’s duct tape over her mouth. There’s duct tape around her ankles, and rope on top of that. She struggles to move, but she only ends up knocking her head against the lid of the trunk, and it hurts so bad her vision blurs for a moment.

After a while, the car slows to a stop, and she hears the doors open. Boots crunch on gravel. The trunk lifts, and it’s too bright to see, but immediately she is grabbed by her arm and hauled out of the truck. She can’t stand, because her legs are so tightly bound. She’s acutely aware of the bruises that have already formed on her body, and she winces as this person’s fingers dig into her arm.

As her eyes adjust to the light, she becomes aware of where she is- an old gravel lot next to the ocean, with a dilapidated building hiding their presence from the rest of the city. 

She’s dead. She knows it. Sherlock is out of town. No one knows she picked up the case.

Someone pulls out a knife and cuts through the tape and the rope on her ankles. She kicks out, knocking his knife to the ground, knees him in the face, and then stomps hard on the top of the other man’s foot. He yells angrily, pulling her to the ground. She can’t catch her fall, and the side of her face slams into the gravel. Her face hurts like hell, and one of her ribs aches, and she hopes it’s just a bruise, but what does it matter when four men are pointing guns at her? She would be lucky to live another hour.

She is prodded with the gun, pushed toward the old building. She breathes in through her nose, trying to calm the sense of dread that’s washing over her. She can’t seem to get enough oxygen.

They open the door and push her through it. The building is musty and smells of rotting wood. There’s a single chair in the center of the room, with plastic sheeting covering the ground around it. Joan sucks in a breath through her nose and immediately forces air back out. The rot in the air is painful.

She is forced down into the chair, and they tape her legs to the legs of the chair with more duct tape. She hates duct tape. They use more of it to secure her torso. There are two many guns pointed at her to even consider fighting back.

“Ready?” one says. He cocks his gun. Joan closes her eyes.

_ Bang. _

She flinches violently, then hears a thud as the man in front of her goes down. She feels something warm and wet on her face as she opens her eyes.

_Bang._ _Bang._

Two more men fall.

Joan’s eyes widen in recognition as a familiar face comes into view, dressed in a trench coat.

“Hello, Joan,” Moriarty says, aiming her gun at the last person standing. His hands are up in the air. She gestures to him. “You. What’s your name?” Her voice is callous and cold. Joan feels ice in her veins. She knows the look in Moriarty’s eyes.

“Paul,” he says.

“Who do you work for?”

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, they’ll kill me, I can’t.”

“Remember, Paul,” Moriarty says, walking closer, “I also have a gun, and I am a much more immediate threat. Now tell me, who do you work for?”

“They know who my family is. They’ll hurt my family. Please-”

“Call your employer.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and dials a number.

“Tell them there’s someone who would like to speak with them.”

“Hello, sir. There’s, uh- there’s someone here who has to speak with you. Yes, sir, it’s urgent- no, she’s holding a gun to my head, sir.”

Moriarty plucks the phone from his hand. “Hello,” she purrs. “Joan Watson. Does the name ring any bells?”

Joan can’t hear what the other person is saying, but she can tell that Moriarty is having a hard time keeping her tone even.

“I am the person who is quickly going to become your problem. Call off the hitmen you ordered on her.” She pauses, a smirk playing across her features, and says, “Does the name Moriarty mean anything to you?” There’s another pause. “Call off the hitmen or I will make it my mission to destroy not only your organization but everything and every _ one  _ you hold dear. Joan Watson is under my protection.”

Paul makes a run for it.

_ Bang. _

Moriarty ends the call. She drops the phone onto floor and smashes it with her boot, then turns back to Joan. Her face is twisted with hatred. “Whoever did this to you will regret this.”

Joan tries to say something, but the duct tape on her mouth prevents it. Moriarty’s features immediately soften. She strides forward and comes to a stop in front of Joan. Her gaze flits from Joan’s scraped, bloody cheek, to the bruises on her arm, to the dead men’s blood splattered across her face.

She places one hand on Joan’s cheek- the one that isn’t bloody- and with the other, gently peels the duct tape off her mouth. “Your face,” she says tenderly, stroking her thumb across the bottom of Joan’s jaw. Joan isn’t sure whether to flinch away or to lean into the touch. She stays frozen. “I’m so sorry I didn’t find you sooner. I wish I could have prevented your pain.”

“How did you find me?” Joan says, although she isn’t sure how she mustered the strength to speak.

Moriarty takes a pocket knife out of her coat and cuts the tape off Joan’s wrists, then off her torso, then off her ankles. Joan rubs at the red marks the tape left.

“You should know by now how many eyes my organization has,” Moriarty says. “If there’s someone I’d like to keep an eye on, it isn’t that hard to do so.”

Joan jerks her hands away from Moriarty’s. “You’ve been spying on me?” Joan says, and Moriarty looks slightly incredulous.

“I believe a thank you would be the appropriate response, darling,” she says, “seeing as you almost died.” The tremor in Moriarty’s voice almost makes Joan believe that she cares.

Almost.

“I’ve already called someone to clean this up. Give me two days and all of this will be done with. You may inform your client that she no longer has to worry,” Moriarty says.

“What are you going to do?”

“Make the right people pay for what they did to you. On any other day, I would be delighted to engage you in conversation, but you are- injured, and I have a situation that needs sorting.” Moriarty doesn’t look her in the eyes. “Will you be alright finding a taxi?”

“Yeah,” Joan whispers. Moriarty hesitates, glancing back to the blood on her face. Then she takes a breath, licks her thumb, and uses it to rub off the flecks of blood.

“I’ll be in touch,” Moriarty says.

Joan watches, head buzzing, as Moriarty leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this nearly done for ages, I've just been really busy being a badass activist organizing protests and stuff. The next prompt will be up way sooner I promise, but I hope you enjoy!


	3. Sketching a sleeping Watson (M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jamie sketching a sleeping Joan in bed after sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: mention of sex that isn't quite vanilla but what else would you expect

She’s not sure how it got to this point- the banter, the flirting, the sex that wasn’t just sex. Joan was, by all accounts, the perfect woman. 

She presses gently into the red mark on Joan’s hip. Joan twitches. Her eyelashes flutter slightly, and Jamie has half a mind to wake her so she can map her body with her lips, but she looks so peaceful and lovely asleep that Jamie wouldn’t dare.

She can’t sleep, she knows she couldn’t possibly; her mind races with thoughts of Joan. She reaches into the bag that she left by the bed and pulls out her sketchbook and a pencil and begins to trace, so gently the lines barely show on the paper. She follows with her pencil the soft lines of Joan’s shoulders, her waist, her fingers, curled slightly by her side; she sketches the general shape of her hair, the way it falls over her shoulder, and the single separate strand that is stuck to her lip.

Jamie loves the shape of her. She loves the curve of her eyebrows, the scattered freckles across her cheekbones, and the hickeys that have started to bloom on her collarbone and between her breasts. She wishes she had color to paint with, so she could capture the vivid red of them and the light flush across Joan’s face and her neck. 

She spends longer than she should on Joan’s breasts. She wants to do them justice, their shape, the texture of the hickeys decorating them. Jamie loves painting. She likes doing it with her mouth, too. She wets her lip with her tongue, remembering.

Joan likes it rough, sometimes. Most days, she’s content, but sometimes she remembers Moriarty and the person she isn’t allowed to be in love with. Those are the times when they get possessive, trading marks and pushing each other around. Jamie’s back stings from the scratches Joan left, but she relishes in the pain. It means she still belongs to Joan, that Joan still belongs to her.

Her pencil hovers over the tracing of Joan’s lips. She desires, in a way she’s unable to articulate. Pencil meets paper. Gently, so gently that it’s nearly impossible to mess up the lines. She adds detail, shading. Traces back up Joan’s lips and around her eyes. On her page, the shadows deepen. She adds more graphite. They are almost to her standards.

She adds the shadows to the blanket that cover the tops of Joan’s legs and the bottom of her ass. She looks at the real blanket, and the gooseflesh that is starting to prick at Joan’s skin. She pulls the blanket up to cover Joan’s shoulders, and finishes the last details of the drawing.

It’s a sketch, really. Had she hours to spend, it would be better; it is nice as is but crude to Jamie’s eyes. Imperfect, unlike the real woman.

She puts her materials down on the dresser, and scoots into bed. She inhales deeply, trying to memorize the smell of sex with Joan. Her eyes close, and she presses in closer. They can deal with everything in the morning. For the time being, she only wants to remember Joan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty, now, presumably: "I'm changing my major to sex with Joan-"
> 
> I'm still working on that E rating. It's coming along at over 2,000 words and about 5 pages, thanks for requesting 10 whole times because I am living. That chapter will be called "Oh boy is the universe a cockblock" and it might be a while. I'll work on other, shorter prompts in the meantime so hit me with them

**Author's Note:**

> Taking prompts at @dailylesbianappreciation on tumblr, come yell with me


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